


quiet

by orphan_account



Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics), The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck
Genre: F/M, First Time, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 12:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16597826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Slowly, like it hurts him to do it, he grits, “What am I going to do with you?”What happened in the valley.





	quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone has their own take on what happened in "The Prisoner of White Agony Creek." This is mine.

There was a plan; there was a goal; everything Goldie’s done so far has been part of it.

 

As the coffeepot leaves her hand, she has to admit that it’s all about to be thrown out. The thought doesn’t bother her like it should.

 

She calls Scrooge every name she can think of as they circle each other. She punctuates every other insult with an object chucked past his head, less interested in knocking him unconscious now than in restoring her pride. He doesn’t flinch as each piece of dishware flies past him – until she misjudges where he’s going to move and breaks the coffee mug against his temple.

 

Faster than she can track it, he’s across the room and he’s got her backed up against the wall, hissing curses that could make a sailor squirm. He’s furious; she can feel his hand shaking where it’s wrapped around her wrist, but he just stands there.

 

Slowly, like it hurts him to do it, he grits, “What am I going to do with you?”

 

She doesn’t say, _you’re going to fuck me_. She doesn’t think she needs to. She grabs him by the collar instead, pulls him in to kiss her. For a moment he kisses back, too messy and overeager enough to make her face flush. He pulls back, though, with a dazed look that he schools into a glare.

 

“Lazy, lying thief,” he mutters, and Goldie throws her head back and laughs.

 

“Stupid brute,” she replies brightly, and kisses him again, rougher than before. He pulls her closer – her pulse is speeding up to match his, she can practically feel his heartbeat through his chest – and as he runs his hands through her hair, over her dress, he brushes flour off of her onto the floor.

 

She finds she really doesn’t mind, though, because Scrooge is lifting her up – he’s strong enough to carry her with no trouble and she rubs her palms across his upper back just to feel the muscles bunch and relax – and one of his hands is on her ass and it’s really clearing out all the other thoughts she was having. He sits her on the kitchen table, her legs coming to wrap around his waist. He has to move something out of the way, and she hears it shatter as it hits the floor. “Clumsy,” she mutters, but it comes out breathier than she wanted, and she doesn’t think he hears her. He’s busy kissing her neck, her shoulder, grinding against her – he’s hard, she can feel him hot against her stomach.

 

As she tries to work his coat off – he keeps moving and she loses her grip on a button more than once - his hands smooth over her dress but don’t move down. Impatient, she grabs one of them with hers and pushes it under her skirt. He strokes her, but not hard enough, and as he pushes her legs further apart she realizes he’s still trembling. She makes a snap decision.

 

“Wait, wait,” she murmurs, once she gets the coat off. She eases off the table; he makes a little room but she doesn’t need it. Her mouth still on his, she walks him backwards towards the bed, step by step, stopping just before the backs of his knees hit the mattress.

 

She leans back. Gives him her best, most wolfish smile. Then she puts her hands on his chest and shoves him, _hard_. He stumbles back, landing flat with a _thump_ that does a little, if not much, to restore her dignity. He tries to protest, scrambling up on his elbows, but she pushes him squarely back down.

 

Once, they saw a small herd of deer drinking from the creek as they packed in for the night. He knew how not to disturb them, but she couldn’t keep her footsteps light enough and they all started and turned to look at her all at once. Their expression matched the one he’s giving her now almost exactly. “Goldie – what—” he gasps, but she’s already peeling off her dress, leaving it on the floor as she straddles him. He stops trying to talk, then. His fingers twitch. His hands hover around her waist, dig into the sheets as she wraps her hand around his length to hold him steady. She doesn’t tease now, can’t make herself wait any longer.

 

When she imagined this, because of course she did, always there in the back of her mind at first as a tactical option and then as something like a wish, she imagined it rough and fast and dirty. Bent over the table, hands pulling her hair. It’s nothing like that; she’s so slick just from the brief friction of his hand, the promise of more, that when she sinks down onto him it’s in one easy movement. She takes a deep shuddering breath and rolls her hips to get a feel for him, and he bucks up into her once, sharply, then again, a little more fluid.

 

Goldie sets the rhythm, the muscles in her thighs aching as she raises herself over him again and again. It’s a familiar feeling, but there’s something off about it too, an intensity that she can’t find the words for. The sounds he makes as he starts to match her thrusts make her hotter than they should and that heat is almost enough to land her on the edge, but not quite. She runs one hand down her body, from her collarbone all the way to her folds.

 

She doesn’t stifle the sigh as she gets her fingers circling on her clit; why bother, she thinks foggily, who’s going to hear her? Slow at first, she speeds up; she’s never been patient. Her fingers are almost too wet to give her the friction she needs but every time she hits just the right spot she can feel fire sparking higher in her belly, feel it getting ready to overtake her. Her eyelids are fluttering but she can see his face, the slack open wonder of his jaw. He’s transfixed, staring at the place where their bodies meet, and she looks down, too. At his hips rocking to meet hers, at the base of his cock as she rises up, and the sparks reach behind her eyes and she’s coming too hard to see anything else.

 

She half-collapses onto his chest, catching her breath, waiting for the feeling to return to her limbs. When she tries to sit back up, Scrooge winds an arm around her waist and holds her there to keep her moving with him. She can hear his heart racing like this. She feels the tension in his muscles, everything going taut, and she bites down on his shoulder just to add another layer of sensation. It works; he comes with a loud, ragged moan, fingers digging into her sides. It should hurt – maybe it will, later – but right now it just sends another wave of heat through her.

 

For a moment after, he just holds her there, panting. As he comes back to himself, he relaxes his grip, and she rolls off of him onto her back. There’s relative quiet as they breathe, just them and the wind rattling the windows.

 

They could be there for a minute, or for twenty, before he says, “Let’s do that again.”

 

That’s easily the best idea he’s ever had. “Okay then, tiger,” she teases. “Can you get it up again?”

 

He goes red in the face. “Of course I can!” he squawks. A pause. Then, “Give me a minute.”

 

Goldie laughs, but as she watches his face fall, she stifles it. Something stabs through her chest; she can’t easily identify it out here, but she thinks it’s warmth. She grabs his hand, rubs her thumb over the back of it. “I’m sure we can find something else for you to do in the meantime.”

 

Then she pulls his hand down between her thighs. “Oh,” he says as she positions it under hers, his index finger over her clit. “Oh,” a little more hoarsely, then, as she shows him how to move in deliberate counterclockwise circles.

 

He moves so slowly at first that she can barely feel it, and his fingers are thicker than hers and less precise, but he catches on quick, and she can move her hand back up to clutch at the headboard, relaxing into his touch. “That’s it,” she murmurs, “keep doing that.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“Until you can’t stand it anymore,” she says, and closes her eyes. Her perception narrows to the movement of her hips against him, and the gradual increase of the speed of his breathing. She should be freezing but she doesn’t feel it, and she needs to wash her dress and rescue the coffee pot and do—something—she needs—

 

She can’t focus, because he’s making a frustrated sound, and rolling on top of her so that he can press against her stomach – he’s hard again, starting to leak against the fine feathers there – but the new angle isn’t right, and she has to reach down and move his hand again. He shivers and _melts_ against her. His mouth is on her neck, her cheeks, and he whispers “show me _how_ ” hot against her ear.

 

It takes a second for that to sink in, but once it does, they both go still. He leans back to face her, looking like he expects to be reprimanded. She wonders if maybe he’d like that – but _that’s_ an idea for later. “You’ve never done this before,” she accuses.

 

She half-expects him to deny it, the idiot. But he shakes his head and says, “Not before you.”

 

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, but he’s started working on her clit again and she can’t quite grapple with it. She keeps losing her thoughts partway through, like she’s on a ship tilting sideways and things keep sliding out of her hands.

 

She can’t articulate any of that, of course. She’s barely sure this is even happening. All she can say is, “Well, you’re doing okay for your first time. I think you have – _ah_ – potential.”

 

“Potential,” he growls. “Oh, I’ll show you potential, you little –” Rather than finish the thought, he leans up on his knees, guides one of her legs to wrap around his waist, and pushes inside her again.

 

He moves faster this time, more confident, less gentle, a little closer to what she imagined. She knew he’d want to be in charge. She’ll let him have it for now, but next time – because she can’t imagine a world in which there’s no next time, now that they’ve tasted this they’re going to be hooked on it for a long time – she’s going to enjoy taking it from him.

 

But she’s getting ahead of herself. Right now, he’s too distracted by the slide of his cock inside her – she can’t blame him – to massage her clit, but if she tilts her hips up a bit, she can just rock against him until she sees stars, until she can’t help but cry out every time he moves. And then he’s crying out, too, and she can feel him pulsing, spilling, whispering _please please don’t stop_ into her shoulder and she just lets the wave break over her, lets herself squeeze him as tight as she can, lets herself cling to him as they move through it.

 

They slump back onto the bed. He rolls aside, careful not to crush her, and she’s distantly grateful. When she’s present enough to open her eyes again, he’s lying on his side, watching her. Apprehension flickers across his face as their eyes lock, and she doesn’t know whether he expects her to rob him or ask him to fuck her again. He’s wrong either way; she’s not moving anytime soon. She just smiles at him, tentative but a little smug too, and wraps an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. He smiles back and leans his head on her chest.

 

He’s asleep within two minutes. He snores like a train chugging, but she prefers the sound to the quiet of the valley anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so far out of my depth, you have no idea. But this wanted to be written and I could not deny it. Thank you for reading it.
> 
> I have a metaphor for my writing process (it involves a very cute cat) that I'd be happy to share with you at some-silver-reply.tumblr.com if you're interested.


End file.
